"I had hoped for nothing, Fräulein," he answered. "I am satisfied as matters now stand between us. Your words at supper last evening rang in my ears all night, 'Chained to a throne; chained to a throne.' I knew you referred to my unhappy lot when you spoke, though how you guessed the truth concerning my station I do not know." A surprised little smile spread over her face, but he did not see it. He was still smoothing his horse's mane. "You cannot know the terrible truth of your words," continued Max. "I will tell you a part of my secret, Fräulein. All my life I have been cut off--chained to a throne--from the fellowship of men and the love of friends. Karl is the only friend I have ever known save my mother until I met you and your good people. Only the good God can know how I have longed and hungered since childhood for friendship; even for companionship. I did not know what I yearned for until since my arrival at Basel. Truly it is not good for man to be alone, even though he be upon a throne. I am not upon a throne, Fräulein, but I am near one--a small, barren throne, whose greatest attribute is its ancestry. My home is a sad, lonely place--how lonely even you, who have guessed so shrewdly and who speak so eloquently, cannot know. You should thank God for your lowly birth and your lowly friends." "I do," the girl answered, with a queer, half-sad, half-amused expression upon her face which Max could not interpret. "But we cannot break the chains that have been welded a thousand years--that have grown stronger and tighter with each generation," said Max. "You truthfully said, 'One may only endure.'" "I also said that at rare moments one may hope," she answered, with drooping head. "Not I, Fräulein. I may not even hope. I am doomed," answered Max. "No, no, Sir Max," responded the drooping head. After a prolonged silence Max said, "I am sure the secret of my station is safe with you." "You need not doubt, Sir Max," she responded. "You cannot know how safe it is." She turned brightly upon him and continued, "Let me invoke my spirits, Sir Max." She raised her eyes, saint-fashion, toward heaven, and spoke under her breath: "I hear the word 'hope,' Sir Max, 'hope.' It is very faint, but better faint than not at all." "I tell you there is no hope for me, Fräulein," responded Max, desperately. "It is cruel in you to say there is. It is doubly cruel to speak jestingly." "I speak earnestly," said Yolanda. "There is hope. If you win the lady who gave you the ring, you will be happy. I do not jest."